


this is how the summer ends

by glendowers



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Forgiveness, Healing, M/M, Self-Recovery, post 5x12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 15:35:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15821823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glendowers/pseuds/glendowers
Summary: years after their breakup, ian and mickey slowly come back to each other.because when has mickey milkovich ever been able to fight the force of ian gallagher?





	this is how the summer ends

Mickey has spent the duration of his twenty-one years trying to prove people wrong.

The first one, a hardy task for someone so young, was the world. Well, the world _around_ him. Chicago. Canaryville. He had to prove to everyone that he was more than his height, that being a head shorter didn’t mean he would hesitate to break every finger on someone’s hand (Roger Spikey: fourth grade). He had to live up to the Milkovich name, no matter if it seemed like he was doomed to being the runt. “Like a fucking pitbull, that one.” someone had said once and even though it made him swell with pride, he still broke their nose in one efficient move. Consistency.

The next one was himself. He spent the longest on this one, and even though it’s a retired effort, it still deserves to be noted. It started when he was in little league, he supposes. He found that instead of lingering in the streets and trying to pick up girls with his brothers by howling like dogs, he preferred watching the boys on his team run. Sweat. Glisten like a precious gem he wanted to hold in his small, grubby hands. But that was no good, _no good_ , he couldn’t. Not when Terry had introduced to him the Milkovich family tradition of fag-bashing at the tender age of seven years old. _Fucking sickening_ , Terry said, and it repeated on a loop in his head like a mantra whenever he stared a little too long, keeping him on track with his mission to prove himself wrong. He wasn’t a fag. He _wasn’t_.

Then came Ian Gallagher. First the boy with gangly limbs and floppy hair, and then the boy who filled out and grew into those long, _long_ limbs in a way Mickey never saw coming, but appreciated nonetheless. The boy who pushed and pushed and pushed even if Mickey snarled back, hit him, cursed at him, _lied_ to him. Ian Gallagher had a sledge-hammer and broke down every one of Mickey’s walls, no matter Mickey’s attempts to prove that Ian meant nothing to him. That one was a bust, because even as Mickey spat _you’re nothing but a warm mouth to me_ he knew, he _knew_ , that Ian Gallagher had already crawled under his skin and was going to stay there liked a fucked-up tattoo.

_You’re a coward_. He still has the way Ian’s face twisted when he said it etched into his memory; disappointed, pitying, a little bit disgusted. The music in the bar was still thumping, people were drinking and being merry, and all of sudden Mickey had to prove him wrong. He _had to_. He knew he did as he watched Ian shrug on his jacket, watched him pull the door open. He knew it like he knew Ian was the best thing in his life. So he did. He came out. He proved to Ian that he could be enough, and for awhile, it worked.

And then it didn’t.

In the long-run, Mickey’s efforts proved fruitless. He still found himself at Ian Gallagher’s feet, punching out a broken _so this is it, this is you breaking up with me_ , desperately trying to find emotion in Ian’s slackened expression. A sign that Mickey wasn’t the only one being gutted, like maybe he wasn’t alone in the feeling that someone had reached inside him and _twisted_. He didn’t find it. Not even when Sammi came roaring at him with a gun, not when she shot it, not when he laid in a hospital bed, fucked-up on painkillers and swearing to himself that Ian would show.

Now he’s proving Ian wrong again.

He’s spent his entire life _running_ , trying to derail and mangle a path so clearly set for him, and he’s tired. He’s tired in a way that’s bone deep, figures he’ll put a bullet in his skull if he doesn’t just accept what’s given to him with open arms. He’s gay, he’s a Milkovich, he has Fuck-U-Up scrawled across his knuckles, but he’s not what Ian made him out to be. He’s not a ‘bitch-slapping, piece of Southside trash’, not anymore. Not since the moment he found himself looking in the mirror and hating what he saw, a _Terry_ who swallowed down cheap whiskey like it was a lifeline, drank until his pain was a dull-throb. Mickey couldn’t live a life of letting a fucking redhead control him like a marionette, _feel sad now, Mickey_ with just a few tugs on the strings.

So he picked up his life and moved, he got sober, he got his GED, he’s become a father that makes his son’s eyes shine with happiness instead of tears, places kisses instead of bruises. He’s good, he’s the best he’s ever been, he doesn’t fall asleep with _fucked for life_ lulling him like some type of twisted lullaby. Mickey Milkovich made something of himself, he _did it_ , and sometimes an ecstatic, proud feeling spreads all the way down to his toes until he wants to scream it out loud. _I did it!_

Sometimes at night, though, when sleep evades him, he thinks about what he would do if the world brought Ian Gallagher to his door. Would he rear his fist back and deck him, pull back to see his fist covered in Ian’s blood? Would he grab him by the collar of his shirt and kiss him, holding the fabric until his knuckles turned white and never let go? Or the most anticlimactic of all: just shut the door? It’s a twisted game of _what if_ that leaves him aching, like there’s a fucking chasm in his chest that’s _expanding_ and _eating_ at him. Sure, he revels in the fact that he’s proven Ian wrong in his analysis of him that day in the dugout, but that doesn’t mean Mickey wishes he had to.

In the end, he supposes he should maybe thank Ian Gallagher for shattering him into a million pieces, only because Mickey made himself something more remarkable when he stitched himself up.

✫✫✫

It goes without saying that New York is a big place. That was the initial appeal of it, back when his heart was bleeding something sad and sick and he wanted nothing more than to get away. But now it’s the best home he’s ever had.

Mickey enjoys the anonymity of it all, knowing that as everyone on the subway bustles around him they don’t know that he’s a Milkovich, that his father’s poisonous name isn’t criss-crossing their minds. It’s comforting, to be swallowed away like that.

Mickey became a sous chef pretty much by accident. He started at the bottom, scrubbing away at dishes until his hands were rubbed raw and pink in a French restaurant called Les Choix because he needed the money and the pay was decent. The head chef there was a hulking man named Garrett, and while he may have intimidated Mickey at first, all it took was a handshake to realize that Garrett was nothing more than a sheep in wolf’s clothing. He taught Mickey everything he knew, staying patient even when Mickey ground his teeth in frustration and bit out something cynical.

It’s taken Mickey three years, but here he is, a fucking _sous chef_. Who would have thought? Definitely not Mandy, who swears up and down the only thing Mickey could make before becoming Shahan’s apprentice was pizza rolls. Definitely not Mickey himself, but it’s come be that Mickey is actually _really fucking good_ at what he does. The pay is _great_ (far better than anything he’d had when he was a pimp, thank-you-very-much), and on most nights Garrett lets Mickey take home something.

Tonight? Une crêpe à la ciboulette (try saying that ten-times fast). It’s basically a savory crepe, and Yev would eat them by the fucking handful if Mickey or Svetlana let him (they don’t).

“Honey I’m home.” Mickey deadpans as he shoves a shoulder against the door, arms weighed down by take home boxes that are still radiating enough heat to warm his hands.

He’s answered by a delighted squeal and a tiny three year old barrelling against his legs. A weaker man would’ve buckled but Mickey’s used to it, and so is Mandy as she dislodges Yevgeny’s grip. “Sorry, hun, I forgot your slippers and martini.” she replies wryly.

Mickey just snorts. “Where’s Lana? I brought her home some shit too.”

“Jar! Jar! _Jar_!” Yev screams, pointing frantically at the _Swear_ _Jaw_ like his life depends on it.

Mickey scowls, having just stepped fully inside the apartment, but Mandy smirks at him. “She’s at Nika’s, but you heard the man, pay up.”

He fishes out a quarter and stuffs it in with a grunt (the thing’s nearly overflowing). “You’re making bank, kid.” he says, but he know there’s a fond smile working its way across his lips.

If you would have asked Mickey two years ago if he’d be able to even _look_ at his son without the thought of his conception rearing back and spitting in his face, he would laugh. Three years ago Mickey wanted nothing to do with Yevgeny, and now he loves him with everything in him (even the fucked up, dark parts, but that’s life, right?).

He’s setting the table a few minutes later when Mandy hits him with it. “I... I talked to him today.” she says casually, like she’s stating the weather or the outcome of the Mets game.

Mickey flinches, deflects it even though he knows exactly who she’s talking about. “We playing’ the Pronoun Game for a reason, Mandy?”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” she says, and Mickey knows it’s not intentional but _bang_ the memory of her pushing him to go find a lost redhead hits him square between the eyes. She keeps going. “He called me on tuesday, turns out he moved here a couple weeks ago and had no idea we...”

Mickey laughs, a short dry thing without any humor. “Of all the places... Just my luck, huh?” this only makes Mandy looked pained, so he busies himself with cutting Yev’s crepes into neat little squares for him to eat. “I’m fine, Mands. Not like I have a secret shrine of him in my closet with lockets of his hair. It’s been _three years_.”

“Hair?” Yevgeny asks, shoving a forkful into his mouth.

Mickey wants to spit out something cruel like _the psycho who tried to take you to Disney World and nearly fucking killed you_ , but Mandy beats him to it. “Ian, an old friend of me and your poppa’s who... deeply hurt him.”

“Ian hurt poppa?”

_Broke my fucking heart._ “Uh, yeah. Made poppa sad, that type of hurt, Yev.” he explains, even though he’s not sure why. Even though Mickey wishes it was the opposite type of hurt, a bruise that would fade or a cut that would scab instead of whatever this is.

“Hurt poppa, bad man.” Yev says resolutely, like it’s a fact, and Mickey reaches over and cards a hand through his too-long hair just because he wants to, and he can.

“He asked me if I wanted to get together and I told him to go f-” Mandy stops short, cutting a glance towards an oblivious Yevgeny before continuing. “I told him where to go, basically.”

Mickey jolts in surprise at the loyalty even though _this is Mandy, Mandy won’t hurt you_ , he thinks. “I- Mandy, you didn’t have to.” he manages, “You can see him. When we- when we broke up, I wasn’t the only one who lost him. He was your best friend.”

“Are you... are you sure? Say the word and I’ll make sure he never contacts me again.” Something warm floods him all the way down to h

is toes, makes him thankful for his sister in a way that he wishes he could voice. He doesn’t. “Yeah, just tell me when it is so I can make sure I’m not here.” Mandy’s expression twists into something he thinks might be pity, so he goes to work on his food so he doesn’t have to see it. “Okay, thank you Mickey.”

They don’t bring it ( _him_ ) up again, and Mickey’s just fucking fine with that.

✫✫✫

Tonight’s the night Ian’s supposed to come over, and Mickey desperately wants swallow the entirety of a liquor store.

Instead, he goes to his shooting range right after his shift.

Technically it’s not his, but he comes here enough he’s sure he’s spent a small profit on it. The woman who runs it is a stocky woman named Carrie who knows Mickey from all the times he’s fled here in need of solace, of something familiar that won’t rear back and bite him.

Mickey shoots until his hands are buzzing, until the only thing bouncing around his head is the number of times he’s struck the target straight in the heart (the irony isn’t lost on him, thank you). He fires until he convinces himself that it _doesn’t matter_ Ian called Mandy and not him, that he never wanted the timber of Ian’s voice in his ear in the first place.

By the time he pulls the trigger for the last time, he knows doesn’t believe it.

✫✫✫

It takes Mickey six weeks to run into Ian.

All things considering, Mickey figures he should be grateful that successfully dodging him durated for as long as it did. It’s a series of unfortunate events that lead to Mickey’s reunion with Ian, starting with the fact that Mickey relies on Mandy telling him if Ian will be at the apartment or not (she always does when she knows he isn’t working, just so he can plan an escape route). The second domino was that Mickey had a schedule change at Les Choix that never made it past his lips (he forgot). And, last but not least, Mandy had slept somewhere else the previous night (Mickey doesn’t need to know the nature of his sister’s sex life so he never asks for names), making it impossible for her to know that Mickey no longer had a morning shift.

That’s how it’s come to be with Ian on the other side of the door, and Mickey dressed in only a towel.

_Of course my fucking life is like this_ , Mickey can’t help but think.

Somewhere in the back of his head, Mickey picks up on the irony of it all. He’s spent two years wondering exactly what he’d do if he found Ian Gallagher on his doorstep, and now that it’s happened, he’s lost. Fucking lost in remembering the green of his eyes and the shock of red hair that memories just don’t do justice, picking up on a million things he’s forgotten like just how many freckles are dusted across his cheekbones or the pink of his lips. He looks healthy, Mickey thinks, and he doesn’t want to feel proud but he does.

Vaguely, Mickey realizes that Ian’s checking him out, but it doesn’t really register past the feeling of his heart thudding in his ears like a fucking drum. Like the blasted, traitorous organ is about to tear right through his chest and land on Ian’s sneakers. Mickey thinks he might laugh if that happened.

“Mick.” Ian says in an exhale, like he’s been holding it in, and all of a sudden Mickey remembers where and who he is with piercing clarity. His hand tightens on the door as he ponders slamming it in Ian’s face, and is if the redhead can read his mind his arm shoots out it and keeps it open with a dull _thud_. “I’m-”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Mickey interrupts, choosing to ignore the way Ian flinches because _it’s not his job to care about Ian’s feelings, not anymore_. “Mandy’s supposed to text me if you’re here for the sole reason this” -Mickey gestures between the two of them- “doesn’t fucking happen. What are you doing here?”

Ian open and closes his mouth, then opens it again. “You have a whole system for... avoiding me?”

“Yes I fucking do, don’t be too surprised that I’d prefer to go my whole life without ever seeing your face again,” he spits in a way that especially bitter, even for him, that makes Ian wince all over again. “Oh, you ruined that too. Can you meet Mandy somewhere else please?”

“Mickey-”

“ _Don’t_.” Maybe Ian finds it funny, the same word used in vain to make Ian stay so long ago, now used in an attempt to get him as far away as possible. Mickey doesn’t really think so.

“How’ve you been?” Ian asks, as if he’s deaf, still holding on to the door and looking like he wants to fold in on himself. Mickey wants to touch him, can positively feel his fingertips buzz at the thought of running the pads along Ian’s cupid’s bow.

_Fuck_. “Ask Mandy. Bye”

Another block to keep the door open. Ian steeles his jaw, and the gesture is so _familiar_ that it sweeps back Mickey’s anger and leaves him with that ache. “No. I’m asking you. _How’ve you been, Mickey?_ ”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m the best I’ve ever been in my life,” he says, wanting to sneer but not having enough energy to make it happen. “I got my life together, proved you wrong. Not a bitch-slapping piece of Southside trash anymore, Gallagher.”

Impossibly, Ian shrinks into himself even more, tucks his head to his chest and lets his arm fall. “I was out of my mind, Mickey.” he says, and he sounds miserable in a way that should make Mickey revel, but Mickey can’t derive any enjoyment from it. _Damn you, Gallagher._

He sighs, opening the door wider and beginning to walk away. “You can wait for Mandy in here, just don’t fucking bother me, okay?”

He feels more than hears Gallagher follow him.

✫✫✫

“Mickey, he wants to talk to you.”

“I’d rather eat glass, thanks.”

“Would you just consider it, asshat?”

_Yes._ “No.”

✫✫✫

The system has gone to complete shit. On a weekly basis Mickey opens the door to find Ian standing behind it, that stupid unsure smile on his face that Mickey both loves and loathes. The ginger _fuck_ seems to have no regard for Mickey’s mental health, unaware of the fact that Ian is the knife and Mickey is the willing flesh. _Cut cut cut cut_. Despite the recurrences, though, Mickey still feels the thrum of his pulse whenever Ian says _Hey, Mickey_.

That’s the other thing. Ian doesn’t call him Mick anymore. He’s back to Mickey, and sometimes Milkovich. But never Mick. Mickey knows it’s his own fault, just like he knows he regrets it.

It happens like this: seeing Ian for the second time, two weeks post towel reunion. Ian’s leaning on the doorway when Mickey opens it, looking soft in the stupid Washington State University hoodie he’d found at the Goodwill a couple years back. He startles, looking happily surprised to have seen Mickey again, and he’s smiling as he says, “Hey, Mick.”

“Don’t call me Mick,” Mickey had said, “ _Friends_ call me Mick. We’re not friends.”

It had caused Ian to flinch, a sad twist of his mouth and all traces of his happy feelings gone. “I’d like us to be.”

And Mickey couldn’t handle that hope in his voice. He couldn’t. Not after everything he’d done, not after he’d pulled himself up from whatever hole being in love with Ian had caused him to dig. He was _New Mickey_ ; he was Mickey who had a good job, who had a brilliant son who he loved, and a life he was beginning to love just as fiercely. He couldn’t handle it because Ian being in his life meant trouble, it meant being torn to shreds and it meant blood in his teeth.

So he said, putting intent behind his words: “Don’t.”

He was a fool to ever believe Ian would listen to him.

✫✫✫

Five months later, two things happen all at once: Mickey agrees to go on a date with a coworker. Hours later, he agrees to go on a date with Ian.

Except he’s not going on a date with Ian. Not really. Not at all. What he’s doing is _smart_ , it’s an acceptance that Ian’s back in the picture for the foreseeable future and no matter his feelings on the matter it won’t change. _Closure_ is what he needs. He’s too tired of being angry.

So, stupidly, he’d said yes to meeting Ian at the dive-bar down the street. He’d turned away before he could see the delighted grin on Ian’s face, because even though he’s destructive he’s not a _sadist_. He knew what that grin did to him, just like he knew the sky was fucking blue.

The date was first. He’d worn his best shirt, a blue button-up that Mandy said brought out the blue in his eyes (which he noted, and then promptly informed Mandy to shut the fuck up knowing it meant money in the jar, again). It was with a waiter at the restaurant who’d been dogging him to go to dinner for months; a twenty-something pretty boy who had a nice smile and sturdy hands.

The pair ended up at a diner in Brooklyn, and for two hours they bickered over baseball, laughed too much, and tipped too well. It was the lightest Mickey had felt since seeing Ian, and when Peter tried to kiss him when the night ended, he let him. It was a good kiss, by all measures, a kiss that held _promise_. Mickey was both hesitant and willing to see exactly what that future was.

Except today’s the day where he sees Ian, and if he thought he was nervous about the date with Peter he’s positively _tweaking_ as he digs through his closet trying to find something that doesn’t have holes in it. He pretends his hands aren’t shaking as he lifts up a shirt and assesses it in the mirror; it’s the black dress shirt that Mandy bought him for his birthday last year that had been collecting dust amongst his other clothes. His life had never warranted dressing up, but tonight he could pretend that he was everything more than his roots. He needed that reminder, so he shucked it on alongside his best jeans and set off to meet with Ian before Mandy could harass him.

The bar is hot enough to make the back of his neck flame, and after only a moment he finds Ian sitting in a booth near the back. His back is turned, but Mickey could pick out that red hair in a crowd after years of remembering the feel of his hands in it.

_Stop._

He does, and forcefully makes his legs function. He shuts off his thoughts and slides in across from Ian, decidedly ignoring that Ian is wearing a green shirt that makes his heart sputter. He lets himself smile, just a little bit, if only to see Ian’s blinding smile in return.

“Mickey! Hey. Hey, how are you? You look-”

Mickey cuts him off with a wave of his hand, “I’m good Gallagher.”

Ian leans forward on his elbows, that stubborn jut of his jaw, and resumes, “You look great, Mickey. Really.”

Mickey looks away, resenting the burn of his cheeks and desperately hoping that the dim light won’t give him away. If Ian notices, he doesn’t say anything. “So, why are we here exactly?” he says in lieu of the compliment he should return.

Ian’s hands fidget on the table as he tilts his head. “I don’t know you anymore. I want to change that.” he smiles, and even though it’s sad it’s still beautiful. “I want to know you. And since you agreed to do this, I was hoping you felt the same about me.”

“I always give in to you, you know that,” he says in a sigh, “you’ve always been a stubborn fuck.”

Ian laughs, “Some things never change, Mickey. Do you want a drink? I can’t drink on my meds, but by all means, you won’t tempt me.”

“I don’t drink anymore,” he says, a reflex entirely dependent on practice and will-power, before registering the second part of what Ian’s said. “You’re taking meds? For how long now?”

“Two years, about. I still have bad days, like I can feel when I’m supposed to be manic or depressed, but it doesn’t compare to- to before. You know.” he ducks his head, embarrassed, but Mickey is smiling so hard that he can feel it in his cheeks.

“Gallagher, you son of a bitch! I’m proud of you, kid.” and as Ian lifts his chin, a tentative smile pulling one side of his mouth, he puts that intent in his words again when he says, “really, I am. That’s fucking great, Ian.”

Ian’s smile grows, the set of his shoulders pleased but humble. “What about you, huh? You stopped drinking? How come?”

Mickey pulls at the sleeves of his shirt, “Yev. He’s my entire fucking world, man. Drinking just paved a way to being Terry, and no kid deserves that.”

Ian moves as if to touch him, but then decides against it. He gives him another smile instead. “That’s fucking incredible, Mickey.”

“Yeah, well, when you have a five year old running around all day you don’t have the time. Besides, I like being around for all the new shit he does every day. He’s so fucking smart, Ian. So much smarter than me. Who knew I’d be the parent who puts their kids drawings on the fridge and swears it’s fucking Van Gogh, huh?”

He knows he’s beaming, but he can’t help it, and when he looks at Ian again the feeling is mirrored back at him. “We really got out of Canaryville, huh? Let’s get some root beer and cheers to that like the old sonsabitches we are, Mickey.”

“Mick.” he says, because he can’t help it. “Call me, Mick. All my friends do.”

It’s worth it for the loopy grin on Ian’s face. “So, what do you say, Mick?”

They order those root beers, like the recovered alcoholics they are, and make toasts to all the small accomplishments they’ve made. As the night continues, Mickey can feel the _shift_ , and he leaves feeling like he’s shed a weight he didn’t know had been bearing on his shoulders. Ian’s back in his life, and for the first time in a long time, he isn’t afraid of that.

✫✫✫

Peter and Mickey date for six months. He meets Ian a month in, and when Mickey expects a blowup Ian surprises him by smiling and saying, “So you’re the reason why Mickey’s been so nice lately? Good on you, someone needed to make an honest man of him.”

They end things in the same diner they went to on their first date. It happens when Peter takes Mickey’s hand and says, “Mick, you’re in love with Ian. I’m not Ian, let’s stop pretending I ever will be.”

He’s not wrong. Ian and Mickey had stumbled into a friendship, and what started out wobbly became solid in a matter of months. Ian wasn’t going anywhere, and somewhere along the way Mickey had fallen right back into the stupid love he’d had as a teenager. He doesn’t know when the shift happened, but it happened, nonetheless. And that’s all that matters.

It all comes to a head on Mickey’s birthday. After a disastrous cake made by Ian and Yev (which tasted okay but looked like absolute shit), and the threat of bringing a stripper to give Mickey a lap dance by Svetlana, Ian joins Mickey on the porch.

Ian reaches a hand out, and Mickey passes over his cigarette without saying anything. He’s fucking drunk on happiness, and he’s afraid something mushy will come out if he opens his mouth.

Ian takes a drag, and Mickey can’t stop noticing the pucker of his lips or the shine of his eyes. Ian hands it back wordlessly. “Did you have a good birthday, Mick?”

“That cake’s gonna give me food poisoning, man. Pretty sure Yev didn’t wash his hands.”

Ian bumps his shoulder against Mickey’s, and the touch isn’t new but always feels like it. “Shut the fuck up, we can’t all be fancy, french chefs. Some of us are mere common men.” he takes the cigarette again, smiling. “Besides, you loved it. But not as much as my singing.”

“My ears are still fucking _ringing,_ Gallagher. You always been so tone deaf?”

“You better stop while you’re ahead, Mick, or I’ll start a second verse.”

Mickey faux groans, his head falling back. “I’m too old for this.”

Ian just sticks his tongue out at him, and the motion is so juvenile and so stupid that Mickey can’t help but do it back. He’s only human, after all.

And when Mickey expects Ian to laugh, he doesn’t. He just smiles, small and sad in a way that Mickey hasn’t seen in awhile, and just as he thinks Ian isn’t going to say anything Ian proves him wrong, “I want to kiss you, Mickey Milkovich. But that’s against the rules.”

Mickey can hear his heartbeat in his ears, loud and harsh and there, and he looks back at Ian. “It’s my birthday, Gallagher, and I say _fuck the rules_.”

The whites of Ian’s eyes are visible even in the dark, his body perfectly still. Mickey’s surprised him, even though everyone knows that Mickey’s heart has always been in the distinct shape of a 6’1 ginger from the southside. “Wh-what?”

“Ian would you just fucking kiss me already? It’s been almost four years, and I’m tired of waiting.”

Ian does. It’s a thousand things Mickey’s remembered and a million things he’s forgotten. It’s the feelings of Ian’s hair in his fingers and Ian’s hands on his back. It’s two broken teenage boys in the back of the Kash and Go, and it’s the two of them, _now_ , and Mickey knows that everything was just a build up to _this_ moment. This moment, on his birthday, against all odds.

“You’re it for me, Mick.”

Mickey smiles, and kisses Ian again just because he can. “Me too, Ian. Me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> HERE WE ARE!!!!!! ANOTHER HAPPY FIC!!!!!! post 5x12 because i can't stray TOO FAR from my comfort zone. oh well. enjoy something that isn't filled with angst 4 once !!!!! xoxoxo


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